


Hungry

by blithelybonny



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hunting, IDK if that's cannibalism but..., Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Offscreen Eating of A Person, Pack Life, Sex, They are Wolves at the time, Werewolves, just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 22:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15083429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: A slice-of-pack-life: Adam and Kent could definitely go for some eats.





	Hungry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daydoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydoodles/gifts).



> With thanks to [redacted] for reading along and beta-ing, and with thanks to discord pals for encouragement. Y'all are rockstars! 
> 
>  
> 
> To my recip: I hope you enjoy! Thanks for the open prompt and the excuse to write about these two puppers. <3

Kent’s stomach starts rumbling right around the time that Andy Bernard’s cell-phone goes off onstage in the middle of  _ Sweeney Todd _ . He allows himself one more sift of his fingers through the coarse-soft fur he’s been petting for—wow, he has no idea how long it’s actually been.

“Bro,” he stage-whispers, as he curls his fingers into a fist briefly to scrunch up the fur, “I’m hungry.”

A sighed-out whuff is the only answer he gets, and the huge blond wolf seems to sink in and settle more firmly across Kent’s lap—which feels great honestly. Kent’s favorite thing about wolves has always been the complete and utter lack of personal space between them; the way they all like to snuggle up on the couch to watch reruns, the way they would always rather sit on somebody instead of a chair, the way anything less than a California King-size bed is impossible to sleep comfortably in, the way their weight on him feels kind of like taking a hot shower to relieve the soreness in taxed muscles except actually about ten-thousand times better than that.

And, as much as Kent doesn’t exactly have the most charitable feelings about Jack Zimmermann these days, he does have to admit that Jack’s pack is the fucking best. (His college pack anyway—Kent doesn’t have particularly charitable feelings about the Falconers either, but that’s a hockey thing more than a Zimmermann-specific thing.) He likes that despite the nonsense and chicanery that went down between him and Zimms and despite the fact that they’re only at the “barely-functional exes” stage of their rebuild, Jack’s pack had no problem adopting Kent as one of their own and treating him exactly as they would any other bro.

Any other bro that one of their bros wanted to bang, though, Kent supposes, unable to contain his smile. Finding a mate that  _ wasn’t _ Jack Zimmermann from amongst Jack Zimmermann’s bestest bros was a huge, albeit very welcome, surprise.

Andy’s singing Macy Gray by the time Kent’s stomach decides it can no longer be ignored. “Dude, come on!” he says, chuckling a little as said mate whuffed again and dug his snout into Kent’s very ticklish-when-human ribcage. “Seriously, Holtzy, I’m fuckin—ow, elbows, bro!”

The now human-formed Adam grins, but dutifully removes his elbow from Kent’s junk and then carefully levers himself up off the couch. “Oop,” he says, not sounding at all remorseful.

Kent narrows his eyes and says, “And here I thought you liked my junk. I thought you wanted to keep it around. Nestle it close and tenderly care for it.”

Adam smirks at that and drops to his knees. With his hands sliding firmly up and down Kent’s upper thighs, he says, “I mean I could, but—” he leans in close and lets his lips drag teasingly against the tender skin of Kent’s inner thigh “—I thought you were hungry?”

“I hate you so much,” Kent replies, laughing, as he squeezes his thighs shut and traps Adam’s head between them. “Like literally, you are the worst person I know.”

“Not even true, bro,” Adam replies—at least it sort of sounds like that, muffled as it is. He nips at Kent’s thigh and pulls back when Kent jerks somehow both towards and away from the contact, laughing huskily, then adds, “Come on though, I could definitely go for some eats.”

Kent looks down with dismay at his half-chub, then back up at Adam, who’s grinning like he just bagged a particularly juicy rabbit. “You’re like a legit menace,” he complains fondly, as he raises his hands for Adam to help him off the couch. “Also, you might have to fuckin’ carry me because your fat wolfy butt cut off all the circulation to my legs.”

Adam barks out a laugh before he gets his big paws on Kent’s ass and hoists him up to wrap his legs around Adam’s waist and arms around Adam’s neck. “You like my fat wolfy butt, though because I can do this,” he murmurs against Kent’s lips, smiling a little into Kent’s answering kiss.

Kent’s certainly not the smallest wolf in the world—he’s not even the smallest wolf in this pack—but he’s definitely undersized for a professional hockey player, and he’s very used to compensating for his lack of size with speed and aggressive chirping. When people meet him in real life, they’re always surprised that Kent’s not a giant. And so, it had been a little disconcerting at first to discover that he really liked the way Adam’s height and breadth, while not wholly dwarfing him, did make him feel small and— _ soft _ in a way he wasn’t entirely used to anymore.

It’d been so nice, though, that first time: the way Adam’s entire body covered him, weighed Kent down into the soft rug on the floor, held him firm and secure with his teeth sunk gently into the back of Kent’s neck. He’d felt present in his body, certain somehow that he’d found his home. He’d felt warm and protected and safe. He’d felt—cherished.

That same warmth and sense of centeredness fills Kent even now, hundreds of kisses later. Adam likes to curl his tongue against Kent’s in a way that never fails to send sparks of pleasure down Kent’s spine. He hums a little too, tuneless and arrhythmic—like he has no idea he’s doing it, but he’s so happy, he has to make some noise. Kent likes that almost more than the French-kissing.

After a moment, Kent pulls out of the kiss, and Adam holds him up as he lowers his legs to the ground. He sighs gustily, smiling as he presses his hands into Adam’s chest, curling his fingers and scratching gently through Adam’s chest hair. “Okay, but seriously now, I’m fucking starving,” he complains.

Adam dips his head down to rest his forehead against Kent’s and says, “What are you in the mood for?”

Kent scoffs. “Like you don’t know, babe.”

Adam laughs at that, a big, booming thing that lights Kent’s insides up with excitement, and then he swiftly shifts again back into the huge blond wolf that Kent loves so much. He lopes out of the living room towards the kitchen where Kent can hear Ransom quietly bemoaning the lack of anything beyond sriracha sauce in the refrigerator.

“ _ Dude, we don’t have—oh shit, yeah? Fuckin’ sw’awesome. Can I—oh yeah, no big. Fuck, get your romance on, bro. Just save me some leftovers.” _

Kent grins, closes his eyes, and shifts. He’s really in the mood for the chase.

 

** **

 

Everything is easier as a wolf—sharper, more intense, yes, but simpler somehow. Maybe it’s that expectations are lower; Kent doesn’t have to worry about being the best, doesn’t have to prove anything to the fans or the management and coaches or the rest of the team.

(Not, of course, that he minds all that—he loves being the one his team leans on as their captain, loves the way the fans scream his name when he sets up plays and scores goals. Kent learned very early on how to survive under the pressure and the scrutiny, and, not long after that, he learned to  _ thrive  _ on it.)

But there’s something freeing, too, about the pressures of humanity melting away with the shedding of his human skin. All Kent needs to worry about is the pound of his paws against the ground as he runs, the scent of the prey in his nose as he tracks, and the call of the moon in his heart as he howls. The only tether he has is to his pack, but they are as much a part of him as he is a part of them—never a burden; only a strength.

Kent loves running through the woods around the campus, whether with the entire pack, with only Adam, or on his own. The open fields are great, of course, for those nights when he just wants to stretch his legs, but he loves more the obstacles the trees make for him; he loves having to follow his instincts, to dodge branches and roots, to sniff out the best path—to hunt. Kent loves the way prey tries to hide from him and the way he never fails to catch them.

Fuck, he’s  _ hungry _ .

Adam butts his head against Kent’s torso, letting out a low growl at Kent’s whine. Kent turns and tucks his snout up into Adam’s neck, scenting him briefly and taking comfort in the familiarity of it. Adam’s deep, rumbling hum of an answer makes Kent whuffle and slide back just enough to lick at Adam’s muzzle for a few moments before Adam headbutts him gently again.

Telepathic bonds between wolves are a myth—Kent’s known that as long as he’s been a wolf—but sometimes, he can swear that he and Adam share thoughts. It’s more likely that they’re just so in tune with one other, that their instincts and tastes are so similar, but it’s also sort of…romantic to think that they can be in one another’s minds and know exactly what to do—or in this case, where to eat.

The lax house might be right across the street from the Haus, but there’s no fun at all without a bit of a chase first.

Adam sits back on his haunches and raises his head to let go a long, gorgeous howl at the moon that Kent joins. Several wolves in the area answer back, bright and clear, saying,  _ go get it, enjoy, we have your back. _

The thrill of the hunt suffuses Kent then when Adam turns his head and stares into his eyes. The moon gleams there, pale and golden, as Adam asks him,  _ are you ready? _

Of course he’s ready. His stomach is empty and his heart is full. He can practically taste the meal on his tongue already, feel the snap of bones and sinews between his teeth. Kent’s hungry, god, he’s so hungry.

Adam howls again, deep and echoing throughout the open field before the woods, then takes off in a sprint across the field, Kent following hot on his heels. The wind whips through his fur as he goes and grass rips up from the ground as he tears along. He cannot help but let out another howl too,  _ here we come, ready or not! _ If Kent was in his human skin, he’d be laughing, breathless and exhilarated, but howling for everyone to hear how happy and pleased he is has to be enough for now.

They reach the woods easily, but then Adam pulls up short and Kent stops with him on the running path that winds through the trees. He drops his snout to the smoothed-over earth, searching out the scent of the prey they’re after, dipping into the woods a little and then back to the path.

He’s such a tease—Kent can smell the prey easily, had picked the distinct scent out of the hundreds of others nearby the second they’d left the house, and he knows that Adam can smell it too because Adam has an even stronger nose than Kent does. And when Adam crosses in front of Kent again, clearly pretending he hasn’t yet caught the scent, Kent pounces on him instead, tackling him to the ground and getting his teeth into Adam’s neck with a playful growl.

Adam whines and growls and squirms around until he’s got Kent pinned beneath him and can lick at Kent’s muzzle until Kent’s tongue is lolling to the side and his body is buzzing with warmth and pleasure and the still-present hunger of a prey just out of reach. But suddenly, Adam raises his head, his ears pricking up and his nose twitching. It must be near.

Kent rolls over and gets to his feet as well, just as a sharp howl sounds from somewhere down the path. Adam nips at Kent’s ear once, and then the two of them take off at a run again, focused and intent, following the scent that has sharpened with fear. Kent’s mouth parts on a grin, and he howls his happiness.

Let it be afraid—they always taste better when they’re afraid.

 

** **

 

Kent’s head rests on Adam’s hip—Adam had yelled at him when he’d tried to lay it directly on his stomach—and he sighs out through his nose, gusty and pleased with himself. Adam groans a little at the slight movement, and his hand flops down to tangle his fingers in Kent’s hair. “I…did not expect that fuckin’ Chad to put up such a fight,” Adam complains.

“I liked it,” Kent replies, shifting a little so that his cheek rests on Adam’s iliac crest. He looks up to meet Adam’s gaze as best he can from the angle and continues, “Gotta work up a good appetite before I chow down.”

Adam’s mouth flattens into an unimpressed line. “You saying I didn’t work you up enough?”

“No…no, I’m not saying that,” Kent sing-songs, before he turns his face fully into Adam’s hip and licks a stripe along his bare skin. He wrinkles his nose, though, and makes an unimpressed sound, then adds, “Ugh, dude, why are you so sweaty? The air’s on!”

“That’s just my natural flavor, ya nerd,” Adam replies, laughing. He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at Kent, a fond smile on his lips. “I’m a bisexual Jewish wolf—I’m practically made of salt.”

Kent snickers at that, even as he gets up and realigns himself so that he’s laying between Adam’s legs and getting himself reacquainted with one of his favorite parts of Adam’s body. “Pun opportunity missed, Holtzy,” he says softly. He dips his tongue down to touch delicately at the head of Adam’s cock, a kittenish little lick just to say hello, and then flicks his eyes up to watch the way Adam swallows hard. “You’re kosher salt.”

Adam groans and thunks his head back against the floor, and Kent laughs because he honestly can’t tell if it’s because of the comment or the way he fastens his lips around the head and suckles gently exactly as Adam likes best. “Your mom’s—ahh,  _ shit that’s good _ —kosher salt,” Adam stammers out, fingers tightening in Kent’s hair a little.

“She totally is though.” Kent bobs his head all the way down, swallows around his mouthful until he hears Adam cry out, and then sucks in on his way back up to pull off with a loud, wet pop. “Literally say the words ‘Christian Grey’ and she will rant for twenty minutes about how much better Charlie Hunnam would have been than what’s-his-face,” he explains through his growing smirk, as Adam’s muscles flex and twitch under his hands. “Fuck, your  _ thighs _ , babe.”

“Heeeeey, if that’s where your head’s at, bro…” Adam replies, lazy and suggestive.

Kent shivers a little as he runs his hands up and down Adam’s thighs again—there’s so much power and strength in them; he’s been around hockey butts and thighs all his life, and while nobody can match certain NHLers that occasionally feature in Kent’s masturbatory fantasies, Adam decidedly does give them a run for their money. He imagines the pull and stretch when Adam runs or skates, the perfect burn he must feel when he’s thrusting deep into Kent—and Kent wants, suddenly, so much.

“Nah, I want—I want,  _ oh fuck _ , I want—” Kent can’t find the words to describe the wave of desire that’s coursed through him. He lowers his head again, takes Adam in his mouth and starts sucking him at a brutal pace. He wants Adam right on the edge of pleasure, wants to bring him to exactly where he needs to be so that as soon as Kent’s ready, Adam can take him.

Adam’s hands tighten in his hair again, edging on painful rather than pleasurable, so Kent pulls back just enough to look up at him again. He’s panting; he exhales shakily and manages, “Easy, easy—or I’m not gonna be able to—”

“—I want you to,” Kent interrupts him. He wraps a hand around Adam’s cock, circles his thumb over the head and then down to slide along his scar, grinning again at Adam’s sharp intake of breath. “I want—I want…” He wants to be held, Kent realizes suddenly. It’s what he always wants.

Adam sits up just long enough to grab Kent’s hands and then lies down flat again, pulling Kent up on top of him to align their bodies perfectly, a low, rumbling growl coming from deep in his chest. He wraps his hands tightly, possessively around Kent’s back, folding them over the curve just above the swell of his ass. “You know I’d give you anything, Kent,” he says, fond and—not soft, because he’s not really capable of lowering his voice, but gentle and sweet. “Just ask me.”

Kent grins down at him, ready to try again, to come up with the words for exactly what it is he wants, but then he snakes a hand up to rub his fingers at the corner of Adam’s mouth instead, laughing. “You got blood on your face—” his grin twists into a chirping smirk “—you big disgrace…”

“Somebody better put you back into your  _ place _ ,” Adam finishes the line easily.

“That’d be some rhythm,” Kent offers, then demonstrates with thrusts of his hips, “We  _ will _ , we  _ will _ rock you,  _ unh _ !”

“You’re breathless already, hot stuff,” Adam teases, kneading his hands into the meat of Kent’s ass, but he’s very clearly not unaffected either; his dick teases too, sliding up between Kent’s cheeks, twitching against his hole on the slide, ready to get in as soon as he gets the okay. “So, go on…give it to me not-straight,” he laughs quickly at their silly old joke, “tell me what you want me to do, Kenny.”

(The first time Adam had called him Kenny, Kent cried. It had been visceral, an immediate unwelcome rush of complicated emotion he couldn’t untangle in the moment. It wasn’t until Adam shifted and wrapped his big warm body around Kent that he’d been able to figure out why he’d felt so strange—it was because it didn’t hurt anymore. Zimms was the only one who’d ever called him Kenny fondly before, but it didn’t belong to Zimms now. The name belonged to Kent’s mate. The name belonged to Adam.)

Kent ducks his head down under Adam’s chin, scents him—waits for that low, rumbling purr again—and mouths at the hollow of Adam’s throat. “Take me,” he says quietly. “I want you to take me. Please.”

Adam rolls them over in answer to the plea, covers Kent’s body with his own and sinks his teeth into Kent’s neck as he gently nudges inside.

Kent cries out softly, barely a sound, barely a sigh—just rides on the wave of feeling at  _ home _ .


End file.
